Unexpressed
by cutting love
Summary: Sherlock makes a triumphant return, but the reception isn't quite as expected Also contains: Mary Morstan
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had always assumed that one day they would speak of it, but he was not particularly anxious for that day to come. He wasn't much good at expressing emotion, and he worried that if he failed as spectacularly as he usually did, John would never bring it up again. He was content to wait; hearing it out loud wouldn't make it any more real than it already was, seeing the light in John's eyes and reading his posture and taking his pulse. For Sherlock, their love was already tangible, no matter that John seemed to be bidding a prolonged, rollicking farewell to the woman-shaped joys of life as a bachelor. Sherlock didn't press for anything more than what he already had; a loving flat mate willing to put up with his idiosyncrasies. He was not eager to embarrass himself physically, being inexperienced and unsure.

Still, he always presumed that the day would come when he did so. The day he would finally get to learn the taste of John Watson's lips, the texture of his bare skin, the sleepy glow of his late-night gaze. Sherlock looked forward to that day immensely, but he wasn't about to rush into it. Perhaps, he allowed himself to believe, it would be the same day that he learned what it was like to see John in his 'date' clothes, waiting for none other than Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps it would be the same day John's eyes met Sherlock's intense gaze with no hesitation.

Sherlock imagined all those things, and many more, but he never imagined what he would find when he came home. He never once imagined that he had been wrong.

John wasn't just shy. John wasn't struggling with his sexuality. John wasn't in denial, or afraid, or saying a slow goodbye to women, or teasing Sherlock, or drawing out the game. John simply was truly only a friend.

It was- incredible. Confusing. Heartbreaking. Shocking. Painful.

The day he came home, Sherlock had thought that perhaps that would be _the_ day. The one he'd dreamed of while he was running across the world, killing assassins and tearing down Moriarty's web. He'd focused on the job at hand, more than anything else, but always in the back of his mind was the relentless need to see John again, to know beyond a doubt that John was safe. He loved John. John loved him. John _must_ be safe. These were the black-and-whites he thought in over the course of the years immediately following his fall from the hospital roof.

He'd climbed the stairs leading to the door of 221B, nervously pulling at his hair, his coat, his scarf. All the things he'd left behind to go incognito and save John. But here he was, home again, himself again. As though for one moment he was in a bubble and nothing had changed. At the same time, everything had, and he hoped it would continue to do so. He hoped he would open the door, go up the stairs, the fifth one creaking as it always did, to find John at his desk or on the couch, preoccupied with something that could be finished later. He hoped that his one-time blogger would see him and smile, and from there they would go as best they could into that world Sherlock had long dreamed of, a world of soft kisses and inside jokes and a bond even deeper than the one they'd already experienced. He knew quite well that he was romanticizing it a bit- doubtlessly John would have questions, and anger, and confusion and perhaps enough rage to land a punch or two. Sherlock smiled quietly, willing to take whatever punishment John saw fit to deliver, as long as they could settle back into their habit. Holmes-and-Watson. He turned the door handle and went in.

The fifth step did indeed creak as it always had. This made Sherlock feel that maybe the rest of his hopes weren't so very irrational. On the seventh step, he could hear voices in the drawing room. He stopped short and frowned to himself, wondering if he should come back later. No, he decided, John's shock might well be mitigated by having someone else present to reassure him that he was not imagining anything. Besides, Sherlock felt confident that he could excuse the third party if he felt the need. He resumed his measured step.

At the door, he paused. It was halfway closed. Should he walk in? It _was_ his flat. Sort of. From what he could see, nothing had been moved, though it did smell different. He pushed open the door with a slight tapping knock, and cleared his throat to announce his presence. Glanced around the room and smiled when his eyes lit on John. He took a few quick steps toward his best friend, unable to stop himself. "John," He was surprised to hear the catch in his own voice.

"Oh my god." John's mug of tea crashed to the floor, and he gripped at the counter to keep himself on his feet. Leaning on his cane, too, Sherlock observed. That was no good. "M-Mary. Do you…?" John's mouth opened and closed once or twice, then the kept it clamped, spasms moving to other parts of his face.

Sherlock quirked his brows, confused. He turned to see this 'Mary' person. She was sitting on the couch, openmouthed, and he deduced her as quickly as he could. Comfortable here, shoes off, clearly familiar. Perhaps a new tenant? Judging by the few new feminine touches to the room, that seemed likely. She was blond, about John's age, and engaged. Oh, that was lovely. She'd be moving out soon, and things could go back to John and Sherlock in 221B. Wonderful. He looked away, deciding she merited no more observation.

"John." He took another step toward his favorite person.

"Sherlock?" John managed weakly. "I… I thought you were dead?"

Words came tumbling out of his mouth, seeming to trip over each other as he tried to explain. "A necessary deception, John, I apologize. I am so very sorry I had to lie to you, John, but it was for your sake. Moriarty- he had- assassins. They were going to- _kill_ you if I didn't jump. I had to save you. Molly helped me make it look real, and I've been abroad since then, tracking down Moriarty's people. They're gone now, John. You're safe. _We're_ safe. So I could come home." He had been advancing slowly on John as he spoke, and now he reached out carefully to grasp John's shoulder, pull the other man into a fully upright position.

"What… Sherlock?"

"John?" Sherlock couldn't help it- he raised his other hand and drew his fingertips carefully, lovingly, down the side of that well-remembered face. His lips quirked just a bit on one side. "You have a moustache, John."

"What? I- yeah." John cleared his throat, stepping back from Sherlock's grasp. The detective's heart sank, but he dismissed John's reticence as the natural product of three years apart. "It's- good to see you again, Sherlock."

The woman on the couch cleared her throat.

"Oh, right." John turned to her, and Sherlock felt a flicker of annoyance. "Sherlock, this is my fiancée, Mary Morstan. Mary, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"A pleasure, mister Holmes. An unexpected and completely shocking pleasure." She held out her hand to shake, and as Sherlock did so, his mind reeling in shock and vague pain, she slapped him with her other hand.

He was too caught up in the echo of the words 'my fiancée' to react much, turning his eyes on her quizzically.

"HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT JOHN _WENT_ THROUGH?" She shrieked. "After you died, you son of a bitch? And now you just walk back in here like nothing's changed, like you still _live_ here! This is _my_ home now, Holmes, and you'd better GET OUT!" She was glaring and advancing on Sherlock like a dragon.

"Mary," John interrupted weakly, still mildly shocked.

"Don't you _dare_ defend him now, John."

"John," Sherlock was bewildered, for once having trouble keeping up with the situation, and the only thing he could make sense of was John's presence.

"_GET OUT_." Mary shouted again.

Sherlock didn't know what to do but back out, and he all but toppled down the stairs that led to the front door.

Once back on the street, he sat down slowly on the curb and cried.

221B Baker Street had been his _home_, his home with John. He had felt safe and loved, every day he awoke there. He had dreamed of a day he would awake in John's arms, but evidently that day was never to come. He sniffed pathetically and wiped ineffectually at his tears, knowing full well that they wouldn't stop any time soon. Unused to crying, he soon found that he had trouble breathing through his tears and he gasped for tainted air.

"Sherlock?" John's hand was tentative on his shoulder.

He looked 'round, trying again to wipe his tears. "I- I'm sorry John."

"Sherlock… I don't know what to say." John crouched, slowly and painfully, bringing his cane down with him. "You were- you were my best friend, Sherlock, and when you jumped I lost so much. It took me a long time to rebuild, and Mary- she saw me at the worst of it. She's a bit protective. I'm sorry she shouted."

Sherlock just shook his head, not knowing what to say. He was beginning to realize that he'd have to leave; he couldn't stay in London without John. He wasn't even sure he could stay in the world without John. His mind was whirling, thoughts of possible relief flinging out of the abyss; Mycroft's country estate, drugs, a real job somewhere far away, suicide- not a fake, this time. He'd seen life with love, and nothing compared. Nothing could possibly be worth sitting by while John continued without him. Unless it somehow made John happy that Sherlock was near, but how could it? It was better to pretend that today had been a dream, that Sherlock had really been dead the whole time, and was never coming back.

He'd always known his love was unexpressed, he just never dreamed it could be unrequited.


	2. Chapter 2

They were friends. It was enough.

No matter how often Sherlock repeated this phrase to himself, his logical mind tore it apart, analyzing and describing in detail to itself just _why_ exactly friendship wasn't enough. Oh, it was wonderful, there was no doubt about that, but it was also the single most painful thing in Sherlock's life.

He lived alone at 221B now, and while that wasn't a practical problem- he could still call John and meet him at crime scenes, and the rent had never really been too high (clients frequently insisted on paying)- it presented serious drawbacks to Sherlock's wellbeing. First off, sometimes John wouldn't answer his texts or calls, and Sherlock therefore had to go to crime scenes unaccompanied. He took his skull now and again, just for someone to talk to who didn't mutter "freak" or variations thereof. But it wasn't the same as having John Watson, obviously. The skull had neither eyes to turn admiringly upon Sherlock nor any other physical attributes to be appreciated by the great detective. The skull lacked Watson's brain, Watson's heart. Things that had become crucial to the relative happiness of Sherlock Holmes.

Worse still, when Sherlock came home at night there was no other human presence in the flat, no sounds of the kettle boiling or the telly running, not even the faint sounds of John's breath or bedsprings from upstairs. He was alone again, and now that he knew how the alternative felt, it was painful. Ridiculously so. He rarely slept well anymore, curled despondently on his side, and he knew he ate far too little but there was no one around to care.

His loneliness had made him even more intractable, and he stubbornly insisted on living on his own terms; he denied the need for food, for touch, for positive interaction- everything that made a person human. It was as if he believed that by pretending he didn't need something he would cease to really need it. In actuality, he hadn't bothered to trace down a cause of his behavior beyond the fact that John Watson was missing. That alone, he thought, was reason enough to not care when or if he ate, or whether the door was locked and the gas turned off when he went to sleep.

He contacted John less and less, getting the impression that the other man was happier with Mary. Whenever he called, he was answered in a voice that seemed determinedly terse. John never stayed longer than he had to at a crime scene. There were no more dinners afterward. No more jokes or behavioral corrections, and frankly Sherlock had more or less lost the energy to be actively rude to anyone. There were no more spontaneous outbursts, and John didn't question that. John had moved on; John had recovered. Not completely perhaps, he did grow that moustache (which Sherlock thought wryly had to be a new stage of grief) but John was happily married and living rather quietly with Mary on the outskirts of London.

Sherlock had been invited over once as a sort of apology from Mary for reacting rather badly when she first met him. Sherlock had smoked more marijuana before that visit than he could remember doing since before becoming a detective, but it didn't deaden his senses nearly enough. He still heard the blatant contentment in John's voice when he answered to Mary's pet names, still saw the loving, overbright gleam in his eyes as he kissed Mary's cheek and she laughed. Sherlock had stayed fifteen minutes before fleeing as quickly as his slightly uncoordinated limbs would allow him to. He'd done the unthinkable and taken the tube home, just to avoid having to talk to a cabbie.

When he did take John on cases, they never spoke of the reunion or the pre-fall days. Sherlock noted that John no longer held eye contact with him or took things from him without asking. Casual interaction was a thing of the past, and Sherlock missed it dearly. Often, he found excuses to lean over John's shoulder, brush John's hand in passing- small moments that John would never notice were priceless treasures to Sherlock, remnants of a sunken ship. When he managed to make John laugh, when the ex-army doctor asked him a question. Even Lestrade noticed the reactions Sherlock seemed to have to pleasing John; he once offered Sherlock a lift home from a solved crime, and that simple action spoke volumes to Sherlock. Lestrade was offering him a chance to talk, someone to briefly be companionable with, a human experience. He had to turn down the proposal- he wasn't sure that he wouldn't break down completely if offered sympathy. The only thing keeping him safe now was akin to shock- he didn't know quite what to call it. It was a kind of dullness inside, a sort of constant stupor that partially fended off the feeling of being _alone_. Before, he'd locked away his emotions out of convenience, now he did so from necessity.

But sometimes they broke through, sending him into days of depression and the maddening existential question- _why?_ What could he have done differently?

Today, right now, he pulled himself out of just such a depression forcefully enough to get off the couch and answer the door.

"My god Holmes, you look dreadful."

He stared uncomprehendingly.

"Look at you! Sherlock, I shouldn't be able to see your ribs that clearly! When was the last time you ate?" Watson bustled past Sherlock, setting his suitcase down and going into the kitchen. "Sherlock, the kitchen is not for body parts! How many times should I remind you of that?" He came out, holding two jars of assorted human entrails. "Throw these ones out at least, they've started to rot." He placed the jars firmly in Sherlock's numb hands. "And go put on a shirt, I hate being able to see exactly how little you care about your own survival."

"…John," He cleared his throat and tried again. He hadn't spoken for nearly four days, ever since he'd shouted at Mycroft to get out and leave him alone. "Why are you here?"

"Oh, that…" John came back out, hands full of whatever meager foodstuffs hadn't rotted while Sherlock did the same, entropy brought on by the lack of John. "Well, honestly, Mary kicked me out." He set down the food on the table and cleared himself a space. "Knew it wasn't going all that smoothly, but, well…" He sighed and looked up. "Can you throw those out and go put on a shirt so we can have a serious conversation? I just can't tell you things like this while you stand topless with a jar of intestines."

"Right." Sherlock shuffled off, arms pulled down with the weight of the jars, head pulled down with the weight of confusion, spirits beginning to lift at the idea of John's return. He threw out the entrails- which really hadn't gone _that_ old, but he wasn't going to argue with John, and put on his purple shirt.

"Much better," John said as Sherlock returned to the kitchen and rinsed his hands, knowing John would object if he began eating after handling decomposing tissue. "Though I don't like how loosely that sits on you; those buttons used to look about ready to mutiny." His mouth turned up slightly at the corners, though his brow was furrowed with concern.

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Why are you here?" His voice was just a low rumble, stretching tenuously across the space between them, and he did his best to alter his demeanor, be more friendly and welcoming, allow less of his hurt to show, but John had come during a particularly vicious bout of depression, and shaking off the haze wasn't a quick job.

"Mary kicked me out." John looked frankly up at Sherlock, who slowly took a seat across the table, watching John with eyes that felt hollow. "She said she couldn't stand it anymore, and it was going to be a choice. She's dying, Sherlock," John's voice broke. "And I can't stop it, and neither can anyone else. She wants to leave, go on a last hurrah tour, and she said she didn't want to take anyone with her who wasn't completely devoted. My choice was to go with her or stay here. Here as in 221B Baker street. She said, 'either that's your home or I am,' and I- Sherlock, I couldn't lie to a dying woman. I wish I could go with her, be as much in love with her as she wants me to be, but I can't tell her I am and deprive her of the chance to spend a few months, maybe a year or so, running around doing anything she pleases with anyone she pleases." It was a matter-of-fact statement, but Sherlock could read some of the subtext, and see that there was much more he didn't understand yet. "Sherlock, I know I've been putting up a good charade. This might be a shock to you, but Mary and I didn't have domestic bliss. Every time I went on a case with you, I came home to a very cold reception. It wasn't that she didn't like you, it was just that she didn't like being ignored, as she saw it. Because when you were- gone," John's voice broke again and he cleared his throat.

"When you were gone, Sherlock, she was the most important thing I had. She kept me sane and she kept me company. I felt like I owed her, and I felt like she was as close as I could ever get to real love. When you came back though, it was such a shock- it pulled me back from wherever I had been, and back to you. I talked about you, I asked her whether I should go back to blogging about your cases, I raved about your deductions every time I got to see them. But when you saw us together- when we were all three in the room- I gave her extra attention to be sure she didn't feel neglected. I hated to make her feel unwanted. And when it was just you and I, I had to be careful, so careful, Sherlock- not to be overly familiar with you or draw myself close to you in any way. I couldn't stand to do it. If I- if I-" Until this point, the words had come rushing out, John staring at the table somewhat vacantly as he struggled to put events and feelings into coherent phrases.

Sherlock still didn't quite understand, but he was getting more and more of a sense that John was really back, that they still had a shot at being Holmes-and-Watson, and that was plenty good enough for him.


	3. Chapter 3

It was so hard, so _hard_- falling back into their routine.

Sherlock was still bemused, he still felt like his ears were ringing, deadening all his thoughts and making his emotions a bit… fuzzy. He couldn't quite convince himself that it was real. He kept pulling apart the day that John returned, and every day since then. He even went as far back as the time he'd dove from a rooftop to save John, all the way through the day that he'd walked into 221B and been slapped, and then the time he spent lying in what amounted to Mycroft's basement, sometimes high, sometimes sleeping, always trying to escape and pondering taking the final escape. After John's wedding, he'd gotten 221B back, as the happy couple wanted to live somewhere their own. He'd wandered for days around the flat, sitting on the sofa and sleeping in John's bed, leaving all the windows open to try and rid his flat of the smell of Mary. He still didn't understand why John would have chosen him over Mary. The idea that he might not have was haunting. Sometimes he woke up from dreams depicting his own return in a different light, sometimes his dreams were about his life if John hadn't returned. They made sleep almost unbearable, but because John was back and because John would worry if Sherlock didn't sleep, Sherlock slept.

John was still ragged around the edges, still split over the decision to leave Mary and come back to Sherlock. He hadn't known what he wanted, had been too afraid to ask himself what he really needed, until Mary sat him down and forced an answer from him. He had been almost as surprised as she had been when she put the thing between them into words; "Sherlock or me" and he had blurted after two seconds of spiraling agony: "Sher-Sherlock." He'd stared at the tabletop- the one where Mary had brought him breakfast, the one where he'd made them tea and they'd planned their wedding, the one he'd accidentally burned when his shaking left hand knocked over a candle on a casual at-home date night- and pressed his hands together hard, trying to understand the enormity of his decision. She'd been graceful about it, as if she'd known all along. And, John thought sometimes, she might have. She might have lain awake at night wondering what might happen if the detective with the changeable eyes returned and made her husband's hands stop shaking, banished his nightmares and his limp in a way she hadn't managed to do.

Both of the inhabitants of 221B knew that a personal storm was coming, and that the only way to weather it would be together, but they didn't know what that would do to them. They weren't ready to be thrown together.

Sherlock had wanted it for _so long_. Believed he could have it. Believed that one day, he would belong properly to John. He'd had that belief shattered, painfully shattered, but it was slowly bleeding back into him. He knew that he wasn't ready- before he could show John all the love he'd held back so patiently, he had to wake himself up. Connect to the world, to John. For the time being, the best he could manage was a bleary stare, no deductions, no judgments, just a feeling of gratitude for John's presence and confusion at the same. He had to sort himself out first.

John had sensed something, beyond his conscious mind, that told him that one day he'd have to face himself. Now that he'd started to do so, it seemed hopeless to stop, but he'd held back for so long, and now he was confused and tired. Every night he wondered if the next day would be the one where he didn't feel tired when he woke up. That day might be the day he found the energy to pull each part of himself back together and begin moving on properly. He longed to reach out to Sherlock, to throw his weight into the detective's arms and plead, 'fix me. Fix me like you did the first time,' but he knew he had to at least try fixing himself first.

They had their first case in weeks. The first where Lestrade showed up at Baker street to find the two of them together; the first followed by a stop for take-out food before a triumphant return to their flat.

Sherlock felt more himself than he had in months. He'd made proper deductions, quick observations, quiet remarks to John, jibes at Anderson- who'd been so surprised that he almost didn't respond. John had stood at Sherlock's elbow as if he'd never left, and that was very nearly all the detective needed to pull himself back into the present. He'd never admit it, but he'd climbed a ladder made of jam and jumpers.

As for John, he had had the profound sense of coming home; probably not the best feeling to get while staring at a blood-soaked room, but there it had been. There'd been a little running; he'd dropped his cane. His hands quit shaking when Sherlock pressed against one, tapping out a Morse-code plan. He marveled to himself that all they'd needed in the end was a little external stimulus.

They jogged up the stairs to 221B, mildly exalted at their first joint success in so long. John set out the Indian food on the coffee table, figuring they could eat where Sherlock could sit on the couch and file away all the case data. For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence, eyes flickering up to meet and then dart back to their food. Then Sherlock put down his box of rice and dropped his head against the back of the couch, eyes fluttering shut as he entered his mind-palace. John watched him quietly, feeling proud to be allowed to see something so beautiful as Sherlock open and unguarded. It was this feeling- as well as a _slight_ desire to kiss the marble column of Sherlock's neck- that made him speak.

"Sherlock," John cleared his throat.

The detective jumped the slightest bit, head flicking up and then wavering to look at John. "Yes?"

"I think- we should talk."

"What would you like to talk about, John?" The way he said it made it seem less like he was inquiring about the topic of conversation and more like he was asking where they ought to begin.

"Tell me why you came back."

Unexpected. "W-well…" He steepled his hands and thought for a moment. "For starters, it was preferable to changing my identity and moving to Finland." He tried to make John laugh; it didn't work. The doctor's mouth did turn up at one corner, too tired to do much else as he stared at Sherlock. "And then there was… there was the fact that I missed you. All of you. But especially you, John. I didn't want to live without you." It was easy to say, as if the feelings belonged to a stranger. They were still there, but with the fog that had settled between his brain and his heart, Sherlock felt it was easy to discuss them. The fog was starting to lift, though. The time with John back. Today's case. The fog was more like mist now. "I came back to _you_."

John sat in silence a moment, letting that idea sink through his head. "But I wasn't waiting."

Sherlock drew his knees to his chest and clamped his arms around them. "No."

"You wish I had been."

"Obviously."

"You wish I'd dropped everything and come running back to solving cases with you."

"No. I- I never thought you'd pick anything else up. I don't know why, I just- I thought you'd miss me too-" his voice choked off. The fog was disappearing entirely, and in its wake came cutting, burning sunlight. "I want you to be happy." He laughed at himself momentarily, a rumble deep in his chest. "Not that I was coping particularly well, but I thought that if you were happy… maybe one day I'd be happy for you. Maybe I'd get over it and I could come visit without- succumbing to emotion." He wiped his slightly damp eyes on the knee of his trousers, legs pressing against his face.

"You… Sherlock." John heaved himself out of his chair and moved slowly to the couch, sitting next to his detective. "Why did you succumb to emotion?" His voice was quiet, but he felt alert for the first time in weeks.

"I- I…" Sherlock's voice twisted and broke, his eyes pleading with John over the tops of his knees; 'don't make me say it.'

For once, John wasn't going to oblige his detective. He had to hear it, and Sherlock had to say it first. But there must be a gentler way to come at it. "What were you thinking, while you were walking upstairs to see me?"

"I was… I was thinking about you. And the way we were before. And how sorry I was to leave you, how happy I was to be coming home and how much I hoped- I hoped…" He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "How much I hoped that maybe you'd be so glad to see me alive that you'd forget to be angry and we could just- touch- and be Sherlock-and-John together in 221B and you'd stop saying we weren't a couple and I'd quit having to remember your girlfriends' names because there wouldn't be any more of them, there'd just be us at the end of the day, alone and happy with that." His voice had gone breathy, and he wiped his eyes again. "On the fifth stair, I worried that I'd humiliate myself trying to kiss you-" he remembered it suddenly and sharply, forcing the words out even though he didn't know why he felt he had to say them. "It was stupid."

"No… Sherlock…" John reached out and drew his crying detective into a hug. Sherlock held the front of John's jumper, trying to make himself stop crying. Remembering that day, he could almost feel the sting of Mary's slap, the particular burning where he'd been hit with her engagement ring. He felt again all of his hopes and foolish dreams falling to pieces on top of him, bruising him as they fell with their edges of unforgiving reality. "Sherlock…" There was John's gentle voice, drawing him back to the present, and he tried again to order himself to stop crying so ridiculously.

"I'm sorry, John." He muttered into the doctor's shirt front. It had been nearly a year since that day; there was no reason for it to continue to pain him so.

"Shhh… don't be sorry, Sherlock. It was important to you, and it didn't go like you'd hoped." He rocked a bit back and forth, not knowing what to say. It hadn't gone as he might've hoped either, had he known to hope. Of course, had he known to hope, it would have gone just as Sherlock wanted.

"I'm sorry… You don't need weakness from me…" He tried to sit up, rubbing a hand across his face.

"Actually, Sherlock, I think I do." John breathed in deeply through his nose, thinking, and exhaled into a sentence. "I think I need to know that I matter to you as much as you matter to me."

"I- I matter?"

"Of course you do, idiot; I just chose you over my wife. How much more do you want to matter?" John looked at his bare left hand, resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "Well, ex-wife, the divorce should be final by now, filed the paperwork long enough ago… doesn't matter. What matters now is _you_, Sherlock. You and I. Are we going to be okay?"

"I want us to be, John…" Sherlock's voice trembled a bit as it rumbled against John's chest. "I want us to be _us _again."

"I'd like that, Sherlock." He paused, then decided to plunge ahead, get it all into the open at once. "I'd like us to be more than we were before, Sherlock. It's been four years, but I feel the same as I did then- I want you to be mine. I want to share a bedroom and share my heart with you, and I want you to share yours with me. Right now, Sherlock, you in my arms- even crying, only halfway cognizant- I feel more alive and awake now than I remember being since I watched you hit- hit pavement." He ducked his face into Sherlock's hair. "I'm so sorry I denied it, then. I wish- I wish to god I hadn't. We could've had so much time, before, and I would have waited, and you'd be mine right now…"

"I am."

"Hm?" John dragged his hand over his eyes, then put it back around Sherlock, snuggling a little closer as he felt the detective do the same.

"I am yours."


	4. Chapter 4

After all the time it had taken for Sherlock and John to come to terms with themselves and talk to each other, the final steps were almost ridiculously easy.

It was almost as if it happened by accident- John brought the shopping home one day to find Sherlock in an agitated state, pacing around the flat waving his hands, clearly half-submerged in his mind palace.

John had seen this behavior before. "Spring cleaning?" He asked with just a touch of humor, as he nudged the door to the flat shut with his foot. Sherlock sometimes felt the need to tidy up his extensive brain, and by the looks of it, he was putting the finishing touches on his newest reorganization.

"Mm," Sherlock made a sound of agreement, pausing his pacing to bend and brush a quick kiss across John's lips. It was their first kiss, and it probably would have disappointed some people, but for John it was perfect. It was natural- neither of them made a big show of it, it was just a expected addition to their interactions. He smiled as Sherlock resumed pacing, hands flicking distractedly.

John watched his beloved detective for a moment before entering the kitchen and putting away their food, pausing only to hurl a box of fingernails at Sherlock, who caught it deftly with one hand and placed it on the mantle without breaking step. John shook his head and smiled, pleased at the suddenly wonderful ordinary day. He and Sherlock were quietly building their own private happiness, they both had work, and nothing seemed to be wrong. John had even gotten the best closure of all from Mary- a post card saying she would be settling down to live her last months in Canada with a French-speaking bloke who may or may not understand a word she said to him but who apparently treated her very well indeed.

Suddenly, Sherlock was there, pressed against John's back, arms around his waist. "Hello, then." John turned his head, pressing a smile into Sherlock's curls. "Finished ordering that deranged mind of yours?"

"I had to make room for some new things," Sherlock practically purred into John's ear.

"Ooh-" The shorter man cleared his throat. "What- er- what kind of things?"

"I'll show you," Sherlock murmured, kissing John's throat gently while his hands began to move softly across his blogger's torso.

Yes, John reflected, his head dropping back onto Sherlock's shoulder as he uttered a moan. Today was definitely a bright new day.


End file.
